


moments in love

by olavidalo



Series: . [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (again), Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - High School, Bad Roommate Etiquette, Casual Ableism, Childhood Friends, Class Difference, Football, Gen, M/M, Misogyny, Racism, background cisswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:17:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olavidalo/pseuds/olavidalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this is what being in love is like, it feels pretty rotten. </p><p>(End of Chapter 2 revised and expanded.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All lies. Unbeta'ed, unbritpicked lies.

'Is it true you're in love?'  
  
Zayn glances at the branch above him - Harry's unsuccessfully trying to braid a leaf into his hair, his cheeks red with frustration.  
  
Zayn looks away, glances down at his knees and ankles, his hands and his arms. Does he look any different than normal? He is a bit browner (and Harry's nose is pink all along the bridge), but that's only because they've been in the sun all day.  He's got a scratch on his knee from when they were kicking around the football earlier but otherwise - he looks exactly the same.  
  
'I don't think so?' he says. He flicks an ant off his arm. 'What does being in love look like?'  
  
'Well, you get all--blushy, I guess,' Harry says, shrugging. He looks like he’s _really_ in love, then. Zayn watches him drop the leaf and shake his hair out. 'How do your parents act?'  
  
Zayn thinks about it. Whenever his mum comes in the door, his dad always drops whatever he's doing to hang up her stuff.  
  
'Boring,' he says, slowly. Then he thinks about all the times he's caught them kissing in the kitchen. He wrinkles his nose. 'And gross.'  
  
He glances at Harry uncertainly. 'Am I...boring and gross or something?' he asks, trying to sound like he doesn't really care.  
  
Sometimes, when he's up in Harry's room, Harry's stepdad Richard looks at him like he is. Like he already knows everything Zayn could possibly say before he even opened his mouth. Zayn's mum told his dad Richard's kind of a twat, though, so maybe that's his problem.  
  
Harry frowns and kicks his leg out a bit. 'Of course not,' he says, 'I don't have boring friends.'  
  
Zayn nods, a bit tentatively. Harry's other friends _are_ kind of boring, though. All they ever do is talk about their toys, even though they never seem to bring any along. And whenever they go outside they never do anything besides sit in the shade and complain about bugs.  
  
Harry's actually kind of boring whenever they're over. Zayn doesn't want to say that, though, because it's mean. 'Do you think I should fall in love?' he says, instead.  
  
Harry stares down at him blankly, then wrenches up his nose, like Zayn really _did_ say something gross. 'No!' he says. 'Gemma just said you were in love with Priyani, is all.'  
  
'Priyani? Mum's assistant Priyani?' Zayn tilts his head, thinks about her black braid, her wide smile, her long lashes. 'She's pretty.'  
  
'She is,' Harry agrees. ' _And_ she has big knockers. That's important, in love.'  
  
Harry's mum also has big knockers - but Zayn suspects that would not be a welcome contribution to the conversation. So he just nods instead. Why's Harry so concerned with love and knockers today?  
  
'Are you in love with Priyani, Harry?' There's a bit of an age gap, Zayn thinks dubiously. Harry could probably make it work, though. He's plenty charming, when he wants to be.  
  
Harry frowns. 'Why would I be in love with Priyani?' he asks, sounding honestly curious. 'She's just a chef's assistant.'  
  
Zayn feels himself blush. If this is what being in love is like, it feels pretty rotten. 'Right,' he says, ducking his head. 'Of course.'  
  
'Not that there's anything wrong with--with being a chef's assistant,' Harry says, quickly, sensing, apparently, that he said something wrong. 'It's a, um, an upstanding occupation. Like being a chef!'  
  
'Or a driver,' Zayn says, scowling at the little line of ants crawling up his leg. He pulls his leg up and starts flicking them off one by one. Hopefully they'll fly into the sun and burn up and _die_. 'Or do you think they're no good, too.'  
  
'Aw, Zaaayn,' Harry says, softly, 'I'm sorry, Priyani's lovely and your parents are lovely, too. I'd be lucky to fall in love with any of them.'  
  
Zayn sniffs, then covertly rubs at his eyes. 'I don't want to really think about you falling in love with my parents,' he says, finally. 'It's kind of disgusting.'  
  
'Heyyy,' Harry says, smile sweet and relieved. 'Are you saying I'm not good enough for them?'  
  
'Something like that,' Zayn says, fighting a smile. And then he loses his balance and falls out of the tree.

 

* * *

 

Goalie-ing is near impossible with a broken arm and a heavy cast, as it turns out. So Harry goalies instead. He's not very good, Zayn thinks, though he's clearly trying very hard.  
  
'I'm crap at this,' Harry says, decisively, breathing hard.  
  
'Yea, well,' Zayn says, kicking another one past him. Harry dives too low and it flies in over his head.  
  
'So are you,' Harry accuses, kicking the ball back to him. 'You favour your left side. And you practically broadcast to the world where you're gonna kick.'  
  
'Yet you still can't catch this fo-o-otball,' Zayn says, and grins when he gets another one right through Harry's legs. There's sweat sliding down his back though, and his shoulders are aching. 'Maybe we should call it quits, though. Else Richard might come looking for you.'  
  
Ever since Zayn fell out of the tree, Richard keeps coming back to check up on them every half-hour on the hour. It'd be annoying even if he was doing it for Zayn's sake, but it's clear he's just hoping Zayn's dastardly falling-out-of-trees ways aren't contagious.  
  
'You don't like Richard very much, do you,' Harry says, slowly, getting to his feet. He leaves a streak of dirt on his forehead when he pushes his hair back. Zayn wonders if Richard will see it before Harry gets a chance to wash up, wonders if he'll see it and automatically blame Zayn for getting him dirty.  
  
'He likes you, really, he does,' Harry insists, for the billionth time. Zayn can't see his face when he leans down to pick up the football. It was a gift, from Richard. Zayn remembers the look on Richard's face when Harry had opened it. Richard clearly likes Harry a lot. Gem, too. And he very obviously likes Harry's mum an awful lot, considering he married her and all. He just--doesn't seem to like Zayn.  
  
Well, Zayn's not exactly thrilled about feeling like a bother.  
  
Still, this is just one of those things Harry won't understand. He thinks liking different people should be enough to get them to like each other. So Zayn just nods and says 'Okay, sure.'  
  
Harry rolls his eyes a bit, like, 'you're not fooling anyone with that one, mate'.  
  
'I'll see you tomorrow, okay, Harry?' he says quickly, already walking backwards. Their living quarters are a ways away and if he doesn't start walking now, Doniya'll probably eat all the roti by the time he's out the shower.  
  
'See you,' Harry gives a tiny wave, looking very small underneath his head of curls. Zayn glances at the distance, to where his little house is half-hidden by the grove: the lights are on, which mean's his dad's home. Probably in the kitchen, with the radio on.  
  
Harry wipes his sweat on his shirt and makes a very pathetic face at the smudges of dirt he leaves behind. Zayn walks forward, staring down at his head, and feels a smile well up when Harry peeks up at him curiously through his hair. Hugs are also difficult with a broken arm and a heavy cast; Zayn makes do.  
  
'Hey, what's this for?' Harry says, sounding pleased.  
  
'Well, you're, you're my best mate, aren't you,' Zayn says, embarrassed. Harry smiles hugely against Zayn's neck.  
  
'That's so sweet, I could _cry_ ,' he says, joking, obviously, but he does look a little teary-eyed when they pull apart. But Zayn's his best mate, so he doesn't mention it.

 

* * *

 

When Mum's let go, Zayn cries more than Saf, even, and she cries over everything. Harry's mum's tears drip onto his face when she kisses his forehead. Gem and Doniya hug until Zayn's dad has to gently pull them apart, because the movers are getting impatient.  
  
Harry doesn't cry, though.  
  
Harry doesn't even say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Every time he calls, Molly tells him Harry's currently unavailable and might she take a message? After thirteen increasingly frantic messages, though, she says, 'Look, Zayn, I love you to death and anytime you wanna come visit me and Frank, we'd be happy to have you. But if you keep callin' here, I really might lose my job.'  
  
So. That's the end of that.

 

* * *

 

His mum buys him a football, supposedly signed by Ronaldho. (It says 'Ranoldho' but the box it comes in looks kind of pricey, so Zayn doesn't mention it.)  
  
'So you can make friends with kids around the neighbourhood, okay?' his mum says, tossing it to him, but the kids call Zayn Aladdin and Paki and steal it.  
  
He doesn't tell his mum. And he definitely doesn't tell his dad.

 

* * *

 

Harry hid in his room the night his dad moved out. He didn't come out even when his dad nearly broke the door from knocking so hard. Zayn knows this because Harry told him.  
  
The day of his grandmother's funeral, he locked himself in the bathroom and only came out the next morning. Zayn knows this because he waited on the other side of the door, even after Richard and Harry's mum went to bed; because he woke up when the door opened and saw the look on Harry's face; because he rubbed his back and climbed into bed with him instead of asking why he'd made everyone worry so much.  
  
Maybe this is like that, he figures, whenever he's in their ugly little backyard, drawing scraggly stick figures in the dirt, trying to figure out why he's alone. Maybe Harry doesn't know how to deal with missing him so instead he just--cut him off completely.  
  
He pretends it's like that, anyhow, because it's pretty lonely to hate your only friend who won't even talk to you.  
  
Besides, Zayn's not much for grudges.  
  
Or at least he thinks he's not, anyway, except then the morning of his mum's birthday comes and goes without so much as bloody telephone call.  
  
'He called you his second mum,' Zayn says that night, halfway through his third helping of cake. It's the best cake he's had in ages, real chocolate and butter and milk, instead of all that cheap fake stuff. Still, when he looks at his mum's face, at how _understanding_ she looks, he just wants to vomit all over the kitchen floor. If it's not just him--if it's not just Zayn Harry's done with but his mum and his sisters, too--  
  
'Aw, lovely,' she says. She puts his plate on the counter and pulls him into a hug. Waliyha says something in the dining room and Saf and his dad start laughing. Meanwhile he's alone in the kitchen with his mum, so--so maybe it is okay to have a little bit of a cry. 'You can't get mad at him for it. That's just--that's just how some people are.'  
  
Richard had been like that, Zayn thinks, later, in bed, all cried out. He'd never thought Harry would be like that, too.

 

* * *

Harry, after all, had never visited Zayn in his house; he'd always expected Zayn to come to his.  


 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Ah, the famed transfer student has arrived.'_ Revised and expanded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read that last scene from before, you were spoiled for a _future_ scene...~ _in the past_ ~.

'Oi. You the transfer student?' Zayn blinks up at the figure blocking his light, then scrambles to his feet when he sees who it is.  
  
'Coach Higgins,' he breathes, and fuck, but his hands are even bigger up close. 'I'm, wow, I can't believe I'm actually, like, here, because, like, I'm a huge fan of yours? And I never thought I would have an, an opportunity like this--'  
  
'Alright, alright, calm it down,' Coach Higgins says, and pulls his hand back, looking a bit taken aback. His face is deep reddish tan, his shoulders wide and sloped steep. His eyes nearly disappear into his crinkles as he gives Zayn a once-over. 'You look alright.' Zayn tries to stutter out a thank you but he's too busy trying not to swallow his tongue. _You look alright_.  
  
'I--Really--I--thank you so--' Coach Higgens waves him quiet. Zayn shuts his mouth gratefully. Five minutes in and he's already embarrassed himself. Great. He looks at the grass, at the little beatle crawling across the top of his left trainer.  
  
'Has someone shown you around campus?'  
  
Outside the financial office, a redheaded white girl had pointed him vaguely in the direction of the dorms. 'Uh, yea,' he lies. 'Yea.'  
  
Coach Higgens rolls his eyes. 'Alright, come with me, then.' He walks off quickly, not looking back to see if Zayn's behind him. Zayn wipes his hands on his trousers -- he's not nervous, it's just really hot --and jogs after him. 'Have you unpacked already?'  
  
'Oh, I, uh--' okay, he _can_ actually form a coherent sentence, 'sort of? I just dropped my stuff off in my dorm. Haven't met my roommate yet, though.' And that's more information than Coach Higgins asked for, he probably doesn't care. Coach Higgins grunts anyway, leads him into the high-ceilinged building that Zayn hadn't felt he could just--walk into. Past the gleaming pool, past the clean and well-swept locker room, past the glass-door cabinets with face-masks and polo sticks and rugby balls and cricket bats. And of course, the rows and rows of footballs, sparkling in the gentle fluorescence. Much better than the community centre's digs.  
  
Much more wasteful, too.  
  
Well, Wildenshire was willing to pay for him, weren't they? So he can't complain too much.  
  
Zayn feels something loosen in his stomach as he follows Higgins into what appears to be his office. Zayn looks at his desk while Higgins opens a heaving file cabinet and flips through it. There's a picture of his wife, Lydia, and his two daughters, Huseina and K--Kanika? Zayn always forgets the youngest one's name. He stops himself from asking because. Well, because it's--kind of weird that he knows their names, init? He thinks it over. Right, of course it is, obviously. He scratches behind his ear.  
  
Yea, it's pretty fucking weird.  
  
Higgins pulls out a file and sits behind his desk heavily, staring up at him.  
  
Zayn feels awkward about standing but more awkward about sitting without being invited. Higgins tips his head. 'Si'down.' He sits.  
  
Higgins tosses the file onto his desk.  
  
'That's you.' Zayn fidgets, feels his stomach tighten up again. Is he being metaphorical or--Higgins must read the confusion on his face because he sighs and says. 'I mean, that's your file.'  
  
'Oh.' Zayn stares at it. It's kind of thick. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? 'Er, okay.'  
  
'Lot of kids out here will look at you funny cus your daddy don't make as much money as theirs do,' he says. 'Is that gonna bother you?'  
  
Zayn swallows. 'I won't let it affect my gameplay.'  
  
Higgins raises his brows. 'Oh, so sure you're gonna be playing, are you?'  
  
Zayn bites his lips and nods. 'I--I've seen your goalie and um. I hope it's not--like, rude to say but--I, um--'  
  
'C'mon, then, out with it,' Higgins grumbles.  
  
'I'm better than him,' Zayn blurts, cheeks going hot. 'The only reason he's so good is because the third years had such strong defence. But most of them left this year, so, uh. I don't--' his confidence abruptly leaves him and he tries to find saliva in his mouth to swallow. 'I don't think he'll be as good without them,' he finishes weakly.  
  
Higgins looks at him. 'You've done your research,' he says, sounding a bit grudgingly impressed. 'Still.' He pushes the file a bit closer to Zayn with the tips of three fingers. 'Are you willing to work harder than you've ever worked in your life?'  
  
Zayn didn't think it was possible to sit up any straighter. 'Yes, sir.'  
  
'Are you willing to give everything for the team?'  
  
'Yes, sir.'  
  
'Are you willing to run 50 laps before supper?'  
  
'Yes, si--' hold up '--sorry, what?'  
  
Higgins's brows go heavy with disapproval. 'Is that too much for you, Mr Malik?' It's the first time he's actually said Zayn's name. Zayn feels queasy anyway. 'Because you can take your file and go back to whatever college you came from--'  
  
'No, it's fine!' Zayn says, in a sick panic. The field was _huge_. 50 laps would probably be close to--25 km. 'I'll do 100, even.' Fuck, why the fuck did he say that? Fuuuuuck.  
  
Higgings' frown transforms his entire face. 'Don't be cute, 50'll be fine,' he says. He rolls his chair forward. 'Payne!'  
  
A pause. Higgins gets half out of his seat. 'Hey! Payne!' Zayn's stomach drops. Liam fucking Payne sticks his head in the doorway. Zayn swallows thickly.  
  
'Sorry, Coach, had my headphones in. What's up?' says Liam fucking Payne.  
  
He's bigger and broader up-close. More handsome, too. Zayn swats that last thought away as Liam's eyes flicker over to him.  
  
'Zayn here was just planning on going for a brisk run,' Higgins says, sitting back down again. _Brisk_. Ha. 'Why don't you find him a spare kit and accompany him.'  
  
Liam quirks an eyebrow. 'Alright,' he says, grinning slightly. He comes into the office fully and puts his hand on Zayn's shoulder. 'C'mon, then, Zayn. Let's see what you've got.'

 

* * *

 

'How many--how many was that?' Zayn wheezes, shortly before toppling to the ground. The field's more or less deserted - everyone's probably in the cafe by now. Only Liam fucking Payne gets to bear witness to his humiliation. Lucky him.  
  
Zayn feels like vomiting.  
  
'24,' Liam says, apologetically, somewhere far, far above him. 'Are you okay?'  
  
Zayn glances up. Liam's barely out of breath. In fact, he looks _refreshed_ , even. It makes sense: he's first string.  
  
A top athlete wouldn't be phased by something so measly as 50 laps. Casillas could probably do three times that in his sleep, if he needed to. Not that a goalie would ever need to, really. It didn't matter - there wasn't a scout on the planet that would take a quitter seriously.  
  
He takes a deep breath, forces himself to his feet, ignoring Liam's hand and the protests of every single muscle in his body. Just a little bit more, he tells himself. A little bit more and it'll be over.  
  
'I'm fine,' he says, grinning hard so he doesn't start crying. 'Let's keep going.'

 

* * *

 

Half-way through lap 36, Zayn's legs refuse to work anymore. After an arduous stretching session and an agonisingly brief shower, Liam half-helps, half-carries him to the dorm.  
  
Everything hurts.  
  
'Most people only do 25 or so before they give up,' Liam says, confidingly, still fresh as morning dew. 'Coach does it to all the newbies. It's a lesson about endurance or something. Oh, hey, did he do that file thing, too? The whole 'this is you'?'  
  
Zayn moans weakly.  
  
'I'll take that as a yes,' Liam says, laughing even as people around them give them bemused looks, 'alright, alright, lift's right here, there we go, there we go.' Zayn falls back hard against the wall of the lift. His thighs tremble with the effort it takes not to slide down.  
  
'What room are you?' Zayn silently holds up four fingers, then three, then two. 'Oh, I'm on the fourth floor, too, cool. You must be rooming with a third year.' A silence, as the lift goes up. 'Um, do you have any early morning courses?'  
  
Zayn vaguely shakes his head, tilting into Liam's side as they hobble out on the fourth floor. He could probably stand on his own if he had to but Liam's thumb is digging into his hipbone.  
  
More pressingly, if he tries to stand on his own two feet, he really will die.  
  
'Key,' he says, as they near his door, the second one on the right, 'm', m' keys're--' in his trousers, he wants to say, but his tongue proves uncooperative.  
  
'Don't worry about it,' Liam says, 'all of these doorknobs have a--' Zayn watches him turn the doorknob left, then right, then left, then right. '--um, sorry, I did it wrong, it's--' This time he goes left, left, then right, then left. Zayn hears a clicking sound right before a salamander-looking bloke opens the door.  
  
'Payne,' he says, raising an eyebrow. 'May I ask why you're trying to break into my friend's dorm room?' His eyes go to Zayn. 'And why it looks like you're about to ravish this poor little fresher? That's not very prefectly behaviour.'  
  
Zayn pulls away, relucantly. Liam keeps a steadying hand about his waist as he laughs. 'C'mon, Tomlinson, this is his room.'  
  
Tomlinson's eyebrows raise up even further as he opens the door wider and steps back. 'Ah, the famed transfer student has arrived,' he says, in a weird tone. He looks behind him. 'Looks like he didn't run away after all, Harold.'  
  
The first thing Zayn thinks as he walks into the room is that his new roommate keeps twattish company. The second thing he thinks is that it's pretty lucky his new roommate didn't move his stuff off the bottom bunk.  
  
The third thing he thinks is -- oh.  
  
'Shut up, Lou,' says Harry, from the top bunk. Zayn blinks up at him. Harry raises his hand off of his naked chest and waves. 'Hullo, Payne. Hullo, roommate.'  
  
'Hullo,' Zayn echoes, stupidly, still stopped short in the middle of the room. Liam says something behind him he doesn't hear.  
  
'I'm Harry,' says Harry. 'That's Louis.' Louis puts up a hand in greeting.  
  
''m--I'm Zayn,' says Zayn. Is this really happening?  
  
'Nice to meet you, Zayn,' Harry says, grinning. 'I'm a bit of a nudist. Hope you don't mind.' He gestures down at himself. Four nipples - it's him, alright.  
  
'No, I don't think he does,' Louis mutters, coughing when Zayn looks at him.  
  
'Hey, Zayn?,' Liam says, still hanging in the doorway. 'I'm just gonna --' He points out into the hallway with his thumb. '--if you're good.'  
  
Zayn nods. 'Yea, yea, thanks for--for everything.'  
  
Liam smiles. 'I'll see you at practice tomorrow?' He quirks a brow at Louis instead of returning Zayn's nod. 'Lights out soon, okay, Tomlinson? Don't want to start off a new semester with a demerit.'  
  
'Please, tell me more about the rules of an Academy I've been attending longer than you.' Louis sounds extraordinarily bored as he saunters past Liam.  
  
'Bye, Lou,' Harry calls.  
  
'Ta,' says Louis, because he really is a twat. The door closes on his smile.  
  
And then it's just Harry and Zayn.  
  
They stare at each other for a long, empty moment.  
  
'Can you turn out the main light?' Harry says, abruptly. 'I've an early morning lecture, so.'  
  
'Oh, sure, sure, yea.' Zayn turns on his desklight, hobbles over to the door and flicks off the overhead light. When he turns back around, Harry's back is to him. Zayn can hear the muffled sounds of music: headphones, he figures.  
  
He unpacks his clothes and his bedding as quietly as possible, gets undressed gingerly, makes his bed. He takes out his clothes for the next day, packs his trainers and kit and change of clothes in his duffle, sets his alarm two hours early for practice, checks and re-checks his course schedule a few times.  
  
Harry doesn't try to talk to him once.  
  
The room feels like a coffin of silence when he finally turns off his light. Harry must've turned off his music a while ago; Zayn was too busy to notice. He rolls up onto his back, pillow soft and plump beneath his head. He knows Harry's awake just from how he's breathing.  
  
Something restless is lodged in his chest.  
  
'Uh, goodnight,' he whispers, before he can stop himself. He drifts off in the silence.

 

* * *

 

First practice is shit.  
  
Well, sort of.  
  
In spite of Coach Higgins's warnings, the rest of the team is perfectly polite. So polite there's no goofing off during stretching exercises or anything. Not a foot out of place. The only person who remotely stands out is No 10, and even he moves with everyone else. Like one part of a perfect machine.    
  
Even if Zayn wasn't lagging -- and he is; he really fucking is -- he wouldn't be able to help feeling like a piece apart.  
  
Not that anyone seems to notice him. No one's hostile, really, but neither is anyone especially welcoming. Even Liam only gives him a headnod when they accidentally make eye contact.  
  
Robert, the No 1, doesn't seem at all ruffled when one of the secondary coaches -- Anita? Anika? -- introduces him. He even pats him on the back when he passes him during warm up laps. Zayn  forces himself to pace himself instead of letting his resentment bubble out of him - the reason he's such a waste today is because he overdid it yesterday. Knowing your limits, he thinks, is probably more important than pushing them.  
  
His restraint earns him no fans. Coach Higgins greets him with a scowl when Zayn finally finishes his tenth lap dead last, and no one else seems particularly interested at all.  
  
Second string is pretty much a dead zone, he's realising, filled with players who are mediocre to just slightly not good enough. None of them even look surprised when he moves too slowly in the goal during scrimmages and lets more than a few shots past him. They spend more time fucking around trying to steal the ball from each other than they do seriously trying to get it past him.  
  
Again he's alone for the cool down stretches, watching everyone pair off.  
   
Well, he didn't come here to make friends, he thinks bitterly, wrapping his arm around his neck till his fingers touch the back of his shoulder.  
  
He came here to be _noticed_.

 

* * *

 

'Havin' trouble?' asks No 10, after Zayn's shower, when he's struggling to reopen his locker. Zayn shrugs quickly, pulling insistently at the lock. He has over two hours before his first course at 9, but he still doesn't know where Boysen Hall is, and the little ratatat of anxiety in his stomach won't calm down until he does.  
  
No 10 laughs a little, then subsides at his face. 'Sorry, mate, let me,' he says, putting his dreads up in a loose ponytail. 'They give Stickum to all the transfers.'  
  
'Stickum?' Zayn repeats, moving out of his way. No 10 smells like--candlewood? Sandalwood? Whatever that stuff's called. 'Combo's, eh, 61-65-61.'  
  
'Stickum, like,' says No 10, jiggling the door firmly until it wedges open, 'it sticks sometimes.'  
  
'Oh. Well, thanks,' says Zayn. No 10 grins, starts putting in his earring. Zayn glances at No 10's torso, still turned towards him; adds: 'You seem pretty well-acquainted with it?'  
  
 _Are you a transfer, too?_  
  
No 10 laughs. 'What, d'ya think I was local?' Zayn shrugs, not sure of what to say. 'Nah, bruv. Finding a homegrown black Denny is like. like, shootin for the moon,' he says. 'I'm from Croydon - West born and bred. Brap brap, init?' He holds out his fist.  
  
'Brap brap,' Zayn says, quietly, giving him dap.  
  
'Oh, dude, that was just--straight pathetic, man,' No 10 says, shaking his head, 'like, I'm embarrassed to even be standing next to you.'  
  
Zayn smiles, at a loss for words.  
  
'Harassing your teammates again, are we, Hakim?' says Liam, slowing near their locker bay as he pulls on his blazer. Zayn busies himself with stuffing his shower slippers out of sight.  
  
'Not e-ven, he's harassin' _me_ , bruv,' says Hakim, 'he disrespected the brap!'  
  
Personally Zayn thinks pulling out the brap for a place like West Croydon is what's disrespectful - but he doubts that particular opinion will be well-received.  
  
'Oh no,' says Liam, eyes crinkling as he smiles at Zayn, 'well, we can't have that, now, can we.' Zayn flushes.  
  
'Look, mate, I do not _appreciate_ your sarcasm,' says Hakim, as he puts his rather large arms through the sleeves of his shirt. Zayn realises he's staring and forces himself to focus on taking off his own kit. 'The brap is sacred, okay? Like, passed down from the ancestors, like.' He pauses when he realises his buttons are skewed, undoes them, then buttons them again. 'Ent gonna suffer fools gladly,' he mutters into his chest.  
  
'More fool me, then,' says Liam, easily. 'So're you good? Know how to get to your first course and everything?'  
   
It's only when Hakim looks at Zayn that he realises the question is directed at him. 'Oh, um, yea,' he says, then immediately reveals the lie for what it is when he adds: 'Where's Boysen Hall, though?'  
  
Hakim sucks his teeth softly. 'Ah, Boysen Hall - home of the Humanities an' associated horrors,' he says, sliding his tie around the back of his collar.  
  
'Oh, shut up, Hakim,' says a blonde boy in a towel -- Jack? Jake? -- stopping beside Liam, 'you act like you don't wank off to Shakespeare.'  
  
'Hm, shall I compare you to the side of my fist, Blake?' Hakim says mildly. Blake rolls his eyes and keeps walking. Liam says something to Blake that Zayn doesn't hear, reasonably distracted by Hakim's sudden arm around his goosepimpling shoulders. 'S'pose I'll show you where Poison Hall is, then. Two conditions, though. First: what's y'name?' His voice lowers some, from the spectacle it'd been.  
  
'Uh, Zayn,' Zayn says. He gestures to the back of his jersey. 'Malik.'  
  
'Well, nice to meet you, Zayn Malik. I'm Hakim Johnson,' Hakim says, slapping him on the back once before pulling away. 'Second condition is this,' he holds up the peace sign, 'never disrespect the brap again, yea?'  
  
'Never,' Zayn says solemnly, then mouths _brap, brap_ at Liam when Hakim turns to close his locker.  
  
Liam makes a loud snorting sound that Zayn would've never thought him capable of, just from watching him out on the field.  
  
What would someone think of him just from watching him fumble out there? Zayn wonders. And flushes.

 

* * *

 

'Here's the thing, bruv,' Hakim says, herding him out a side door, 'you're headin' for S1, ent ya?'  
  
'Well, yea,' says Zayn, balking at the sudden heat, 'i'n't everybody?'  
  
Hakim scoffs. 'You'd think so, yea? But nah. Second string's where a lot of the legacy kids fuck about.' He waves at a small group of girls piling out of another door on the opposite side of the building. Must be from the girls' team, Zayn thinks, as a girl with braids bounces a football on her head.  
  
'Legacy kids?' Zayn repeats, watching with interest as a girl in a yellow snapback blows Hakim a kiss.  
  
'Yea,' Hakim says, faintly, 'like, on scholarship, init. Only their scholarship is that their rich parents went here.'  
  
'Ah,' says Zayn, shrugging his pack up, 'so the truly less fortunate.'  
  
Hakim flicks his eyes back to Zayn. 'Yea,' he says, grinning, 'you're funny, ent ya?'  
  
Zayn tries to think of a funny joke. 'I guess,' he says, failing.  
  
Hakim laughs as they descend the stairs. 'I _guess_ ,' he says, in a fair imitation of Zayn's voice. 'High _comedy_ , mate.'  
  
At the bottom of the stairs, a couple is snogging as though their lives depend on it. The girl's stood on the bottom step; her hair obscures the boy's face.  
  
'Oi, Flack!' Hakim says loudly, 's'a bit early in the year for you to be gettin' in the way of the boys, don't ya think?'  
  
The girl -- Zayn assumes her surname is Flack -- pulls off the boy's lips with a lingering hum. Zayn takes in the swollen pink of his roommate's mouth before looking away.  
  
So he has a girlfriend.  
  
'Harry, you're a boy, aren't you?' says Flack, tilting her head.  
  
'Last I checked,' says Harry, in a rough voice.  
  
'And would you say I'm-- _getting_ in your way?' she asks, gently wrapping his tie around her fist.  
  
'Not at all,' says Harry, grinning.  
  
'Alright, whatever, yea,' says Hakim, and he hops over the left railing onto the grassy slope.  
  
'Tell Payne the field is ours next week!' Flack yells after him. Hakim flicks her off without turning around.  
  
Zayn realises he's stood there like an idiot. He evaluates his choices.  
  
...It would be pretty embarrassing to attempt a jump over the railing, only to trip and fall flat on his face. Zayn clenches his jaw just thinking about it.  
  
Hakim stops short a little ways away on the pavement, turns, and makes an insistent 'c'mon' motion at him.  
  
'Uh, s'cuse me,' Zayn says, defaulting to the least disastrous option. Harry picks Flack up by her waist with what looks like no effort and spins her around.  
  
Her skirt isn't all that short; her knickers, however, are very fetching.  
  
'Harry!' she giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck. 'Harry, put me dow--mmm.' And then they start making out again.  
  
Zayn hurries past.  
  
He and Hakim walk in silence for a bit, Hakim's scowl taking a good five minutes to disappear.  
  
'Is there, like,' Zayn says tentatively, 'some kind of rivalry between the girls' team and the boys'?'  
  
'Nah,' says Hakim. He drags Zayn out of the of the way of some sprinklers. 'Just the regular animosity between exes, yea.'  
  
'Oh,' says Zayn, relieved.  
  
They pass a girl with a himalayan hairstyle (who gives them a nod) and Harry's friend Louis (who does not).  
  
'See, that's the thing, init,' Hakim says, under his breath, 'they'll like you just fine if you just keep to yourself. They don't really care how you got here or why -- so long as you stay out their way, you're golden. _Golden_ , mate.  
  
'But the minute,' he says, opening the huge front door to Boysen Hall. The cool blue stillness swallows them up entirely, and Hakim lowers his voice even further: 'the _minute_ you start datin' one of them, start gettin' higher grades than them, start playin' better than them...bruv, believe, the minute you step out of line, _that's_ when you start havin' problems.' He sets his pack down heavily on a teal bench, sits beside it, smoothes his hand down over the top of his dreads.  
  
'So, basically,' says Zayn, staring at the bowed slope of Hakim's shoulders, 'I should... _keep my head up_?'  
  
Hakim's face goes blank. 'Ooh, child,' he says gravely, 'things are gonna get easier.'  
  
An old white woman gives them a narrow-eyed look as she click-clacks by. Zayn can't quite stifle the laughter that comes up; his nerves calm entirely when Hakim starts laughing too.

 

* * *

 

If Zayn dreaded speaking to Harry about what happened that morning, he needn't have bothered: Harry doesn't come back to the room that night. Or the next night. Or the next.  
  
In fact, Harry doesn't ever come back to the room when Zayn's there.  
  
Zayn'll see Harry's shoes out of order, or his two pairs of square cufflinks (white and gold) alternating atop his drawer, or different text books on his desk on different days - but Harry himself is a ghost. The only other sign of him is these yellow fucking _notes_ he keeps leaving in Zayn's pockets:  
  
 _please don't leave your cleats strewn about :)_  
  
 _you accidentally left your Philosophy textbook on my desk :)_  
  
 _please don't forget to turn the light out when you leave the room :)_  
  
Which is _brilliantly_ irritating by itself - but Harry's never actually around for Zayn to talk to him about it.  
  
If Zayn didn't know better -- and he does -- he would suspect Harry of avoiding him. But no, when their eyes meet in corridors or in the cafe, it's always Zayn who looks away first.  
  
Why would Harry bother going to the trouble of avoiding him, anyway, when it's clear he has so many places he'd rather be. When it's clear that he wants nothing to do with Zayn. Still.

 

* * *

 

He ends up spending a lot of time in Hakim's room, which inevitably leads to him spending time with Hakim's roommate Ravi.  
  
According to Hakim, Ravi comes from money older than God: he rebels by listening to shitty grime and smoking weak weed.  
  
And by sleeping his way through half of the student population.  
  
The girl with pierced pink nipples shrieks and dives under the covers. As one, Zayn and Hakim clap their hands over their eyes. Zayn tries to breathe shallowly: the air is sour and thick.  
  
''Sup, homies,' Ravi says languidly, over the sound of very hurried rustling.  
  
'Rav, we talked about this,' says Hakim, 'put a fuckin' sock on the knob or send me a text, yea?'  
  
'Or you could just knock,' says Ravi, shrug audible in his voice.  
  
'Mate... _why_ 'm I gonna knock on my own fuckin' door?'  
  
Zayn feels the girl knock roughly past him, feels his face go hot when he hears her breath hitching. The door slams a few seconds later.  
  
'Call me!' Ravi shouts, grinning up at them. The bottom half of his face is reddish and slick. 'What a bitch, huh. Left me hanging and everything.'  
  
'Serves you right, you twisted fuck,' says Hakim, crossing the room to open the window. 'I swear a part of you gets off on being walked in on.'  
  
'Tell me, Zayn,' says Ravi, gesturing towards his rather prominent hard-on, 'does it look like I've gotten off?'  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes. 'It looks like you're proper twisted,' he says, in a completely normal voice. Because this is a normal conversation, between two normal people.  
  
Well. Zayn's normal. Mostly.  
  
'That's true,' Ravi's laugh is like a perfectly round glass of wine. He seems to remember his persona all at once - he crooks his wet lips and looks at Zayn with interest. 'You know, Amber's been asking after you.'  
  
'Has she,' Zayn says flatly, not even bothering to ask who Amber is - anything so as not to disrupt the flow of words coming from Ravi's mouth. The sooner he finishes speaking, the sooner Zayn and Hakim can start playing FIFA.  
  
'She has,' Ravi says, and quite graciously, too, as though he realises the trouble Zayn went to in not asking after Amber's identity; and appreciates the effort. 'She wants to know if you're coming to her party on Thursday.'  
  
Ravi is forever inviting Zayn to parties held by hosts he's never met. In their brief and middling acquaintance, Zayn's been invited to no less than 14 different parties. All off-campus, he's been assured, and _wild_!  
  
'Nah, bro,' says Zayn, as he does every time, ''ve a game the next day.'  
  
Luckily he doesn't have to default to the homework excuse; even he's tired of reminding Ravi that they're ~here to learn~.  
  
Hakim makes a face as though he's about to sneeze: after a few weeks, Zayn has identified it as his feeling awkward face; very rarely does it function as a precursor to him actually saying something awkward. He just thinks it very loudly, is all.  
  
'Well, what's that to do with you, mate?' Ravi says, not unkindly, 'you'll be on the bench the entire time.'  
  
Zayn glances at Hakim - and sees a faint echo of agreement.  
  
'Maybe I don't like partying with people I don't know,' he says, a bit stung.  
  
'Well, how do you expect to get to know anybody if you just hang off Hakim's arm all the time,'  Ravi says, too smoothly to be waspish.  
  
'Oi. Rav,' Hakim says, flatly. It's not often he uses that voice but when he does -  
  
Ravi slips a shirt on and smiles brightly, perfectly at Zayn.  
  
'I'm sorry,' he says, in a voice that is only just, 'I'm just looking out for you, bro. Wanna make sure you're getting the proper Wildenshire experience and all.'  
  
Again Hakim's face holds a tendril of agreement, which he quickly hides when he turns to connect the red-white-and-yellows to the back of the television set.  
  
'Where's this gonna be, then?' Zayn asks finally, relenting.  
  
From the look on Ravi's face, you'd think that his father had just died.  
  
'Off-campus,' he says, immediately schooling his features into something much milder, 'it'll be wild! You'll love it, promise.'

 

* * *

 

Zayn hates it already.  
  
'What?' he half-screams over the toe-curling bass. The girl in the bright blue dress leans closer: her breath is slick  with the smell of wine coolers.  
  
'Kissing toll,' she repeats, 'no getting in or out wi'out a kiss.' She pats down his shoulders sloppily. 'I might'f'to charge _you_ double.' Zayn looks at Hakim and Ravi helplessly. Ravi rolls his eyes, unclenches her hands from where they've begun to cling to Zayn's shirt, and kisses her firmly three times.  
  
'Alright, Tia?' he says, and nods his head back at Hakim, 'for Hakim, too.'  
  
'Oi, Hakim can take his own kisses, thank you very much,' Hakim says loudly, and then looks down at Tia, who's taken the opportunity to slide down and start poking at his trainers. Zayn carefully moves out of the way. 'Alright then, babes,' says Hakim, crouching right there in the doorway, unheedful of the people pushing past all of them, 'you are uh-fficially relieved of tollbooth duty.'  
  
'But Amber's gonna go mentallll,' Tia whinges, when Hakim lifts her to her feet by her armpits. In the hectic strobe lights - whose brilliant idea was that, anyway - Hakim and Tia look like one solid body every other flash. The neon throb of her dress is the only thing that disrupts the illusion.  
  
'I'll deal with Amber, love, why don't you take me to her,' says Hakim, and then Zayn can't see them anymore because the crowd swallows them up. He turns and interrupts a strange expression on Ravi's face, rendered inscrutable by the lighting.  
  
He leans forward so he can speak directly in Ravi's ear: 'D'ya want to go after them?'  
  
Ravi shrugs. 'You're welcome to.' He immediately latches onto a very pretty girl from Zayn's Chemistry course. Zayn tries to follow after them but Ravi shrugs him off pretty deftly, aided by the haphazard lights.  
  
Summarily abandoned, Zayn makes a beeline for the drinks table, pours something purple-ish and pungent into a plastic cup. They'd gotten here an hour later than planned because Ravi actually couldn't decide what to wear. Everybody he can see looks proper fucked up. Most everyone's grinding off-beat - rhythm apparently the one thing money can't buy - drinking, making out, or some permutation of the three.  
  
The music selection goes from bad to worse: a dubstep Katy Perry remix gives way to a dubstep Lady Gaga remix. Two broad-shouldered white blokes stumble up to the table as he stands there, watching everyone else. They're way too old to be giving _him_ 'what're you doing here' looks - he walks away anyhow. He bypasses someone doing a kegstand -- s'that Robert? yea, that's Robert -- to claim the tiny gap of space left on the couch.  
  
Oh.  
  
Lucky him. He's sat right next to Harry and his girlfriend, who appear as though they're trying to fuck entirely with their mouths.  
  
'Cheers,' Zayn mutters, so quietly he can barely hear himself. He downs his drink in one long, burning swallow.  
  
'Zayn?' Zayn turns so quickly his head spins. Harry nudges him insistently anyway, almost jostling Caroline from her perch on his lap. He gestures to Zayn's empty cup. 'Don't you've a game tomorrow?' he says, breath sharp and sweet.  
  
Zayn blinks at him. How does he know that?  
  
'Oh, leave him be, babe,' Caroline says, flashing him an apologetic smile, 'he's second string. He can do as he likes.'  
  
Right.  
  
Harry's dating the captain of the girls' team - of course he would know about game days. And the game tomorrow, too, yea, fuck Zayn, he can do as he likes. Never mind that their No 1 looks like he's this close to blacking out. Nah, it's got nothing to do with him. None of it.  
   
Zayn grimaces at his knees, tries to push his breath back down.  
  
''S'cuse me,' he mumbles, getting to his feet. Harry and Caroline aren't even looking at him anymore.  
  
He tosses his cup into an overflowing bin, pushes his way through the sloppy crush of bodies, keeping an eye out for either Hakim or Ravi. Neither of them are anywhere to be found.  
  
Outside, a small group on the left side of the porch is spread out around a bong; they give him philosophical headnods as he moves to the right. Just, sat right there, getting high out in the open - no care for who might show up or see them. Amazing. He feels his lips curling up before he realises he's smiling - and he misses Danny so suddenly he can't breathe.  
  
He runs his hand over his right pocket, feels the square weight of his mobile - thin but solid and real.  
  
He could--he could call right now, couldn't he? Danny had said whenever when he wanted to talk, he could. Midnight falls within the definition of 'whenever', doesn't it? He wouldn't get angry if Zayn woke him up. He's probably still up, in fact, reading up for his tutorial tomorrow. Staring hard down at his engineering books, a crinkle of concentration in between his eyebrows. He'd probably welcome the break. 'Oh, hey, Zayn, what's up?' he'd say, and he'd even sound relieved.  
  
'Y'know, I never took you for a pervert.'  
  
Zayn flinches at the voice coming out of the darkness, peers over the--balustrade thing. That blonde girl Hakim's always looking at -- Nala? Nola? -- is staring up at him blankly.  
  
He thinks about how he looks -- stood there with a stupid smile on his face, stroking his pocket -- and feels his face go violently hot.  
  
'I wasn't--' he says, 'I was just--I swear I was just thinkin' about someone from back home. Not e-ven like that, ughh--' This is, like, top ten embarrassing things that've happened to him since coming here, easy.  
  
She laughs. 'Just kiddin', mate, calm down.' Zayn takes a step back as she clambers up the balustrade and onto the porch. He grabs her snapback when it threatens to fall off.  
  
'Thanks,' she says, smile a metallic gleam. Zayn nods, turns around to find the nearest body of water to drown himself in. She stops him with a hand on his arm. 'I was honestly just messin' with you. I'd be the last person t'make fun of someone else over bein' homesick. My first night here, I cried so much I sicked up on m'pillow.'  
  
Zayn stops trying to tug away. '...Ugh,' he says, tentatively. Ireland's a lot further away than Bradford, he figures.  
  
'Oh, no, really, _ugh_ ,' she nods as she lets go, 'longest I'd ever been away from my mate Sean was a few hours. It was just really feckin' horrible.' She sighs. 'Makes me wanna drink just thinkin' about it.'  
  
'Want me to get you something?' he offers, before he can stop himself. Hopefully she'll say 'no'; he really doesn't want to go back inside.  
  
Thankfully she shakes her head. 'Nah, mate, I'm playin' tomorrow. Wouldn't even've come here if my roommate didn't have, like, kissing duty or some shit.'  
  
His mobile vibrates in his pocket. 'Sorry,' he says, taking it out. One of those fucking yellow notes flutters out along with it. Zayn rolls his eyes, ignores the note, and unlocks his screen.  
  
Two new text messages.  
  
One from Hakim: _bruv !!! why are you talkin to nora !!! bruv !!!!!!!!!_  
And one from Danny, from earlier, that he didn't see: _Owe me a call mate..._  
  
'You dropped this,' Nora says, picking up the note. Zayn takes it from her, forcing a smile. He thinks about calling Danny when he gets back to his room, and the smile becomes real.  
  
Might as well read the note. What's the worst thing that Harry can say?  
  
Beside him, Nora sighs. 'Guess I ought t'find my roommate, drag her arse home,' she says, unenthusiastically. 'The things we do for friends, hey?'  
  
 _good luck tomorrow :)_  
  
'--Yea,' Zayn replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Wildenshire Academy is a fake made-up place. Like everything else.  
> II. why is zayn so bad with names #malabami


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a completely different feeling, being on the inside.

Zayn doesn't believe in luck.  
  
Well. Not really.  
  
He's halfway through tugging his not-lucky-but-not-unlucky socks past his shins when Robert comes stumbling into the locker room with red, puffy eyes and a Coach-let-me-explain smile. Seventeen minutes late.  
  
Coach Higgins takes one long look at him -- the rest of them valiantly trying to ignore the crushing silence -- then says, 'Malik! Get your kit on. You're playing.'  
  
Zayn fumblingly gets to his feet while everyone watches. He feels quite suddenly as though he's surrounded by a roomful of strangers. But then Hakim claps him on the back and he notices Liam's megawatt grin across the room - and the sensation abates. Slightly.  
  
'What, today?' he asks, dumbly. From behind Coach Higgins, Robert sends him a poisonous look.  
  
'No, tomorrow, if you'd prefer,' Coach Higgins says, rolling his eyes. Then what he's saying hits Zayn all at once and it feels like the floor drops out from beneath him.  
  
'Hey, don't worry about it,' says Blake, hesitantly, when Zayn empties his breakfast, lunch and dinner into the toilet in proper short order. 'We can afford to lose at least one game. I think? I should probably go...check on that.'  
  
'Keep ya head up, ay,' says Hakim, when the bus pulls up to Weymouth, and they see the big crowd of people painted all over in purple, blue and yellow.  
  
'When you said you were better than him,' says Coach Higgins, right when the game is about to begin, 'did you mean it?'  
  
Zayn stops staring at Hakim, stops wondering what Liam would say, stops thinking about what Robert will think.  
  
'Yea,' he says, honestly, over the chants of the crowd. None of them are here for him; anyway he's heard worse on the tube. He says it again, because he believes it, and he knows it's true: 'Yea, I did. I do.'  
  
'Then get out there and _prove_ it,' Coach Higgins says, and the words somehow sound a world apart from any of the awful sport films they could've been lifted from; and he slaps Zayn on the back so hard Zayn knows there'll be a bruise tomorrow.  
  
'You can do this,' he murmurs to himself as he jogs out onto the field, towards the goal, ' _inshallah_ , you can do this.' He doesn't need luck, he thinks. And then he's between the posts and everything else -- the horrible screaming crowds, Coach's anxious eyes on the back of his neck, the pit of self-doubt in his stomach --  disappears.

 

* * *

 

He goes catatonic, as Hakim tells it later, when they win.  
  
That's not how he remembers it. He remembers Hakim bounding up to him and singing "I Ain't Mad At Cha" at him before lifting him up into a hug that he knows he'll be feeling later. Someone says something about his final save when he's back on the ground -- 'bloody fucking fantastic' - and claps him on the back. _Liam_ , Liam fucking Payne, who he once watched score five gorgeous goals in one game, grabs him by the face and kisses him on the forehead, hard. 'That was beautiful, mate,' he says, feelingly, and Zayn can barely manage a nod before he's being swallowed up by the rest of the team.  
  
It's a completely different feeling, being on the inside.  
  
He finds his eyes scanning the bleachers when they go to shake hands with Weymouth, even though he knows no one could've possibly driven all the way from Bradford for such an unimportant game. Who is he looking for? he wonders, even as he keeps searching.  
  
And then his eyes stop at a head of brown hair, and he realises what he's doing.  
  
'Whoa, whoa, easy there, mate,' Hakim says, behind him, holding him up by the waist when his legs go weak. 'You alright? Need somethin' to drink?'  
  
'Nah,' he mumbles, too humiliated to look up from his trainers. 'Nah, I'm good. Thanks.'  
  
What he really needs, he thinks, is to move on.

 

* * *

 

'I'm not signing this.'  
  
Zayn finishes writing until the colon -- _as Aytoun proves in his final couplet:_ \-- before he looks up. It's easy to forget how tall Harry is, when Zayn only has to see him slouching across the quad. Now, staring up at him, possibly the closest they've been in years (intentionally, anyway), Zayn grudgingly remembers his own height deficit.  
  
The girl next to him stops typing briefly, clears her throat.  
  
'Keep it down,' he murmurs, eyes pausing at the chain around Harry's collarbone and going no higher. The back of his neck goes oddly hot. 'What're you talking about?'  
  
Harry thins his lips, like Zayn's being purposefully obtuse, then dangles the yellow form in front of him.  
  
Oh. Zayn's heart sinks. His eyes falling to his own handwriting, in the box labelled **Reason(s) Behind Room Change Request** :  
  
 _different communication styles_  
  
and he knows, automatically, that Harry, for whatever reason, is going to be difficult about this. He shoots the girl next to him an apologetic smile as he saves his work to his flash and logs off. The computer lab is not the place to have this conversation.  
  
Harry doesn't say a word, just hovers impatiently as Zayn gathers his things as quickly as possible.  
  
He swallows his own rising irritation and tells himself to stay calm. The minute the door to the computer lab slides closed behind them, Harry turns to him and says, 'What does "different communication styles _"_ even mean?'  with a faint sneer - and just like that, Zayn's pissed off.  
  
'It means I'm tired of finding fuckin' post-its in m'pockets,' he hisses.  
  
Harry flushes a bit but firms his jaw stubbornly. _God_.  
  
'Well, I thought it would be the easiest way to _commun_ -i-cate with you,' Harry enunciates, as if Zayn's the one full of shit here. 'You're always hanging out in Ravi's room, so--'  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes. 'And you're always spendin' the night at your girlfriend's. So?'  
  
Harry gives him a tight, warning look - and somehow Zayn falls back into his role as the mature one, the _understanding_ one. He exhales sharply, herds Harry into the empty student lounge. The last person there must've been eating ham, or something very close to it; Zayn's stomach churns at the lingering smell.  
  
'Look,' he says, dropping his books onto the table, 'I know--I know we don't exactly feel comfortable around each other--'  
  
'I feel perfectly fine around you,' Harry interjects. He certainly doesn't look it, with his narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, refusing to be pacified. But that's just the way he is -- once he's got his mind set on appearing one way, he'll bite himself to bits pretending it's true.  
  
No. That's--the way he _was_. He's changed since then, hasn't he? They both have.  
  
Zayn listens to the hum of the vending machines as he collects his thoughts. In the past, the easiest way to handle Harry when he got like this was to give in completely and immediately. That's not an option. Anyway that's what Zayn thought he'd been doing - giving into what Harry wanted. Clearly he was mistaken.  
  
It's like he's headed down a familiar path, only to find his feet ended up taking him somewhere completely different. He feels totally off-course and he doesn't know what to do with any of it.  
  
'You won't even look me in the eye,' Harry mutters. Zayn starts, flicks his eyes up to Harry's -- then brings them back down to his hands, not knowing why--not knowing why he can't --  
  
Harry scoffs. Zayn looks up at the clicking sound of a biro. That's his, he realises, watching Harry scrawl his name along the bottom of the form, next to Zayn's. Probably Zayn almost left it in the computer lab and Harry picked it up after him.  
  
'You want to move out, Zayn?' he says, quiet. 'Fine. But don't try to put it off on me, like I'm making you. This is all you.' Zayn watches the biro roll across the table as Harry gets to his feet. 'So don't think you're doing me any favours.'

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, when Zayn's putting the finishing touches on his paper and trying to ignore both the rowdy first years a row over and the thought of what might be awaiting him back in his room, his mobile vibrates.  
  
 _h ullo..._ , says the text from his dad. _saw a rainbw 2day...t hot of u...h ope all is well...lol...lol...x_  
  
One of the world's biggest mysteries had to be where parents learned to text. Zayn's fairly certain his dad thinks 'lol' stands for 'lots of love', actually.  
  
 _im fine (:_ , he replies, smiling, _just finishing up a paper._ _gonna b n early night, i think. lol_  
  
 _u r h ard worker...evry day i t hink of u...very proud...h ope u r getng plenty of rest...lol...lol...x_  
  
 _lol lol lol_ , Zayn says, swallowing the fierce tug of homesickness that rises up in his throat, _tell mum i said lol to her too_  
  
Zayn's still for so long after his dad responds with a goodbye text that his computer screen goes dark. He startles to attention when his books, his mobile, his hands disappear into sudden darkness.  
  
'Oh, sorry,' says the lab tech, flicking the lights back on, and it is then that Zayn looks around and he realises that he's the only one still there. 'Didn't see you there.'  
  
'Sorry,' he says, mechanically, then saves his work and starts putting his things together. His gaze falls on the half-folded yellow form sticking out of his notebook.  
  
Thinks about going back to his room; and finding a stranger.

 

* * *

 

Harry hates when Zayn uses his bin - has, in fact, dedicated three sickly sweet notes to the documentation of this fact. So it's with a completely clear conscience that Zayn affixes a note of his own onto the yellow form and drops both into Harry's empty bin.  
  
 _it's not all me_

* * *

Harry starts sleeping in the room after that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Sorry for the wait!  
> II. I don't know much of anything about British football (so it makes sense, then, that I would choose to write this) and I've been researching it pretty haphazardly. So if a detail sticks out to you wrongly, or--doesn't make any sense (as the very premise of Wildenshire Academy might), that's probably why.  
> III. [ Weymouth](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weymouth_F.C) is real (and their colors are indeed purple blue and yellow) but it's a club, not a school. The area is a good clip from Bradford - who knows how far it is from Wildenshire. Geography... *waves hand*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fuck is a glissando.

Zayn is not a fan of being dragged out of bed under false pretences.  
  
'So the next time you tell me you wanna watch _Hollyoaks_ , I should actually interpret that to mean you wanna sneak out onto the field, despite the fact that we could've just, like, oh, I dunno, signed it out tomorrow?' He pushes Hakim's flashlight away when he shines it in his face. It's not even that dark out.  
  
'Look, mate,' Hakim says, 'I understand that you are young inna ways of this world, so de- _spite_ your caustic tone (which I do not appreciate, _by_ the way), I will explain to you how this works.' Hakim stops in front of the fence, kicks his football up and over - a clear arc into darkness. It lands with a soft thump, and bounces away with several softer thumps. 'So one day I decide to myself, hey, you know what?, I think I wanna work on m'footwork. But the old field is, like, strictly for the girls, the cricks and the poles, the rec room is too fuckin' noisy, and the weight room is too fuckin' small. Well, what-ehhh-ver shall I do?  
  
'Since I'm new here and don't know how things work, I ask Mitch or Anita, hey, would it possible for me to use the field after curfew to get some extra practice in?' He snaps his fingers so suddenly that Zayn jumps. ' _That's_ my first mistake. _Your_ first was assuming I would actually want to watch _Hollyoaks_ with you.'  
  
'How is that a mistake, it's quality programming,' Zayn grumbles, burrowing more deeply into his jacket. The nights are getting colder. It's not freezing out yet, exactly, it's just not _warm_. Harry always keeps the heat up high in their room, and that's good - but he also keeps trying to fuck Caroline while Zayn's present, so. Mixed bag.  
  
'Eh,' Hakim says. He puts his flashlight between his teeth as he climbs up the fence. With a grunt, he hefts himself over the top; then he drops to the ground on the other side. 'Ey, watch your hands, bruv. First time I did this, sliced me fingers up summ'n terrible.'  
  
'Ohhh, 'scuse me - didn't know you were a proper badman. Feels like I'm learnin' so much about you.' Hakim sucks his teeth and flicks the flashlight on and off in Zayn's face. The two of them clearly have have very different ideas of what constitutes a good time.  
  
' _As_ I was saying,' Hakim continues, shining the flashlight up at the top of the fence so Zayn can see the climb better, 'my first mistake would be in talkin' to any of the coaches. Because you know what'd happen then?'  
  
Zayn drops to the ground on the other side. 'Uh, you'd finally get to the point?'  
  
'Ooh, _fun_ -ny,' Hakim says, walking backwards to the track, where his football's rolled to. The moon disappears behind a thick cloud just as he turns his flashlight off.  
  
Alright, maybe it is that dark out.  
  
'Hakim?' Hakim doesn't answer. Zayn sighs. 'C'mon, man, quit playin' around.'  
  
The darkness has settled by the time he takes a few tentative steps forward. He hears the kick of the ball off to his right, takes in the silence of it slicing through the air before finally making impact - right into his solar plexus.  
  
Hakim jogs over to him, flicks his flashlight down into his face. Zayn holds a hand up to shield his face. 'The fuck was that?' he says, winded.  
  
'That was me, testin' your blind spot. S'proper big, init?' says Hakim, tugging him to his feet.  
  
'It's the fuckin' middle of the night, Hakim, _everything_ is a blind spot!'  
  
Hakim shrugs. 'Well yea, but, like - with your final save, at Weymouth...if the ball hadn't, like, curved left at the last minute, you wouldn't have reacted, I don't think. That's why you asked Anita on the bus if you could practise after-hours, init?'  
  
And all Zayn wanted to do was curl up and watch some fuckin' _Hollyoaks_. 'I dunno, Hakim,' he says flatly, 'you seem to know everythin', why don't you tell me.'  
  
'Okay. Well, how's this, then.' Hakim kicks the ball up into his right hand. 'You're right-handed, but you always favour your left side. You always hesitate before cuttin' to your right, and you always spend longer stretching your right leg.' Zayn resists the urge to strike the football to the ground; he says nothing. Hakim slowly, gradually begins to look like he's holding back a sneeze. 'Bruv, I'm not tryna, like, I dunno, like. _embarrass_ you or anything. It's just somethin' I noticed.'  
  
'And _kickin'_ a ball at my stomach was the only possible way you knew of openin' the subject?'  
  
Hakim looks a bit dubious. '--Well, when you put it like that...I feel like a bad person.' Zayn can't exactly tell in the lighting, but Hakim looks like he's fighting a smile. 'Cause I was actually aimin' for your head.'  
  
Zayn shoves at him, forcing down a smile. 'Do it again and it'll be _your_ head, you fuckin' prick.'  
  
And that's when the sprinklers go off.

 

* * *

 

'See, if you'd just _told_ me you'd fallen out of a tree, we could've avoided this entire failed bonding experience,' says Hakim, still slightly out of breath from running. It's not the worst apology Zayn's ever received, but it comes pretty close. 'And then I would've just said, hey, mate, only suck-ups seekin' a captaincy sign out the field, everyone else just tries their luck at night - and we would've been golden!'  
  
'Well, when you put it like _that_ ,' Zayn says, and he doesn't cover his nose when he sneezes.  
  
'Bro!' yelps Hakim, nearly dropping his room key, 'that is foul! _Do_ you not have any home trainin'!'  
  
Zayn just pushes past him into his room. Inside, it smells like burnt grass; Ravi's Mac is blaring some classical song. Ravi himself appears to be having a transcendental experience, playing the airpiano on his bed. All this for some weak weed, Zayn thinks, and he sneezes again.  
  
Hakim jumps backward, holding up a warning finger. 'Back,' he says, walking sideways to his drawer.  
  
Ravi finally registers their presence; he cracks his eyes open lazily. 'Homies,' he greets. ' _Hollyoaks_ seems to've left you...unusually moist.' He cackles to himself for a bit, and then his eyes widen. He sits up, bug-eyed. 'I hate classical music,' he says, very seriously.  
  
Hakim, in the middle of pulling off his shirt, snorts.  
  
Zayn grins. 'You do, huh.'  
  
'I _do_. It reminds me of everything I hate in life - like, did you hear that glissando?' He looks like he's physically reaching for the meaning of the universe. ' _Atrocious_ , bro.'  
  
The fuck is a glissando. 'Why don't you, like, stop listening to it, then,' Zayn suggests. He definitely wouldn't object.  
  
Ravi shakes his head firmly. 'Absolutely not,' he says. 'It keeps me mean, Zayn; keeps me angry.' The song gets really loud then, like, really intense and...piano-y. Ravi aims a Charlie's Angel's gun at his Mac. 'Brap, brap!'  
  
Zayn throws Hakim an expectant look: how will the ancestors react to this? Hakim throws him a grin, a shirt and some shorts. 'Ey, Rav,' he says, in a mild voice, 'this is Diabelli, init?'  
  
Ravi lowers his hands and narrows his eyes. '--It's Liszt,' he says, crisply.  
  
Zayn raises his wet shirt over his head; when Hakim's dry one lowers over his head, Hakim is already setting up the telly for FIFA. Ehh - this wasn't exactly how he'd pictured his night going. Still, a better alternative to pretending not to hear Harry and Caroline's enthusiastic snogging.  
  
'Play the one by Diabelli, then,' says Hakim, without looking up from the wires in his hands. 'You know, the one with the--with the planets? That shit goes hard.'  
  
'That's _Holst_ ,' says Ravi, strangled.  
  
'Oh, yea?' Hakim says, biting his lip as he settles down in front of the telly. 'Well, same difference, init? Since you, like, hate them all.'  
  
Zayn can tell the exact moment Ravi figures out he's being mocked: he tilts his head up and lowers his lids.  
   
'Hakim,' he says, very evenly, 'fuck off.' There goes that meanness and anger now.  
  
Zayn's laughter turns into three sharp sneezes; Hakim crabwalks until he's on the other side of the room. 'Ya too _reckless_ , man,' he says. 'Jumpin' outta trees, breakin' into fields, infectin' the general populace - you're a proper menace.'

 

* * *

 

'A _menace_ ,' Hakim hisses the next day after practice, shortly before sneezing again. He makes a huge sniffling noise and glowers. Quite formidably, actually, for someone wearing a Mickey Mouse surgical mask.  
  
'Wow, you know, I never really, like, took the time to just like, _appreciate_ how many trees there are around here,' says Zayn. He takes a deep, uninterrupted breath, wafts the air closer with his hands, tries his best to give off an aura of health and satisfaction. 'It just _smells_ so much...cleaner, you know?' How sweet, the smell of karma. Karma smells a lot like sweat, actually - he and Hakim skipped the showers so they could secure some pancakes in the cafe, before the rest of the team cleared them out.  
  
'Like them trees, huh? Well, why don't you go jump out of--' Hakim starts, and then Nora and one of her teammates round the corner, and he cuts himself off with a cough.  
  
'What? Who's jumpin' where now?' she says, grinning shinily. Her cheeks are still flushed with exertion; she looks like one of those cute little Russian dolls.  
  
'Bunjee...jumping,' Hakim mutters, staring down at his trainers. Very smooth. Over Hakim's shoulder, Zayn sees Robert exiting the gym with Harry's twattish friend. Their eyes meet: Robert pats Louis on the shoulder and then waves him on, makes a jerking _c'mere_ motion with his head in Zayn's direction.  
  
Alright then. He's apparently being summoned.  
  
'Um,' says Zayn. Hakim'll kill him if he cuts short the very intense bit of awkward silence that he's got going on. Nora's in the music programme, so any chance Hakim gets to talk with her is, in his words, a ' _choice_ opportunity'. 'I'm 'onna...just, like........go, seeyoulaterHakim.' Zayn pats him briskly on the shoulder, nods at the girls, and leaves them to it.  
  
'Bye, Zayn!' shouts Nora, after him. He waves backwards distractedly, already tensing up his shoulders. Is Robert going to, like...challenge him to a duel? Like, a football duel?  
  
...No, that's stupid. Football duels don't happen in real life, obviously. Yea. Obviously. Besides, it's not like Zayn's _replaced_ him or anything - he just subbed in for him in the last game. Since then, he's been back on second field, and has gone back to being politely ignored by all except the coaches, Hakim and Liam. And occasionally Blake.  
  
Still - he remembers that glare Robert sent him before. 'Hey,' he says, warily. 'Hey,' Robert replies, grinning. His hair is curling, still a little wet: everyone on first string gets the showers first, of course. His teeth are proper Hollywood.  
  
He says: 'So Hakim mentioned that you're in the English programme.'  
  
'Y-e-a,' says Zayn. Where's this going, then.  
  
Robert's smile widens. 'No need to look so suspicious, Malik,' he says, pushing himself off the wall. 'Look, me and some of the lads have been thinking and we realise we could've been a bit more welcoming. Because Wildenshire isn't just a college - it's a bit of a home away from home, don't you think?'  
  
Zayn could not agree less. 'Hmn,' he says diplomatically, adjusting his pack.  
  
'And that makes your teammates...into a sort of family,' Robert says. He looks so wholesome and _earnest_ \- it's creepy. 'And family should look out for each other - don't you think?'  
  
He sounds like he's speaking in code. Creepy, cult code. 'Guess so,' Zayn says, shrugging.  
  
'So if you ever find yourself...struggling to keep up with the rigorous academic standards of your programme, you just let me know, alright?' Robert says. 'Because when one member of the team suffers, we all do. Better all around to hold each other up.' He smiles again. 'Don't you think?'  
  
Zayn blinks at him - then straightens up. 'What are you offering me here?' he says, carefully.  
  
'Oh, anything you need,' says Robert. Zayn's glad he doesn't blush easily. Obviously Robert's not--it's obvious he's not talking about anything like _that_.  
  
'Oi! Zayn!' Zayn looks down - Hakim's waiting at the bottom of the stairs. With Nora and her friend gone, clearly pancakes are top priority.  
  
'--I should go,' he says.  
  
Robert nods his head, smiles. ''Course. Just remember what I said, Malik! We're all family here.'  
  
Yea, pull the other one. 'Umm, yea, 'kay, thanks,' Zayn flings back, taking the steps down two at a time.  
  
'Ey, what'd Robbie want?' muffles Hakim, at the bottom of the stairs.  
  
'I've, like, no fuckin' idea, bro, ha ha,' Zayn says, though he's pretty sure he does. He searches for a change in topic: 'But how'd it go with Nora?'  
  
Hakim deflates. 'She called me fuckin' _Rahim_ ,' he says. 'Do I look like a Rahim to you?'  
  
Zayn stares at him closely. 'Mmm - pierce your other ear, speak only in rhyme, and I'll go with...maybe.'  
  
Hakim chases him all the way to the cafeteria - and there's _still_ no pancakes left.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Zayn does when he finally gets back to his room is flop facefirst onto his bed. The second thing he does is try to catch his breath. He's three chapters of Chemistry to outline, a Calculus test to revise for, and a History quiz he needs to make up. As for English - the printer ink on his Aytoun essay had barely dried before Kaussen assigned them all a 12-14 page paper on goddamn Yeats. Who gives a fuck about Yeats' changing views on Ireland? No one, really - but now he'll have to pretend he does for 13 fucking pages. All that, and he's got to do an annotated bibliography. _And_ he's got to finish those précis he's been putting off.  
  
It's just all very--ugh.  
  
What's worst about all of it is that there's just no wiggle room: he simply can't afford to fuck about. If he slips up, he'll get poor marks. And if he gets poor marks, he'll be put on academic probation - academic probation means no more playing, no more playing means no more scholarship, no more scholarship means no more Wildenshire. No more Wildenshire means no more options. No more options - no way out.  
  
\-- _Rigorous academic standards_ , he thinks, kicking off his trainers without opening his eyes. God. Fuck.  
  
He breathes.  
  
Save for the slight _whmmm_ of Harry's humidifier in the corner, the room is very quiet; he's more or less asleep by the time his mobile buzzes. He digs it out of his pocket, flicks it open without looking at the display. Only people back home call -- Hakim just texts -- and they're probably due an update. 'hhh'lo.'  
  
'Hullo, sunshine,' says his mum. Zayn raises his head up from his pillow and smiles. 'Did I wake you?'  
  
Harry opens the door the minute Zayn clears his throat and says 'No, mum, I'm awake.' Harry pauses in the doorway, awkwardly. And waves. Zayn doesn't know if he's saying 'hi' to Zayn or if he's saying 'hi' to Zayn's mum. Either way - Zayn rolls over so he's facing the wall. There's no need for Harry to push himself; it's not like his mum can see into the room. It's not like Zayn even bothered telling her about him.  
  
'How've you been? Not practising too hard, I hope?' says his mum. Zayn tries not to tense up at the sound of Harry's trainers thumping against the floor.  
  
'No, I'm fine. How're the girls doing?' he says, trying not to whisper too obviously as Harry pads across the room. He doesn't want to ask how Saf's ballet lessons have been going while Harry's still--  
  
Harry yanks his mobile out of his hand.  
  
Zayn can't help it - he gapes. 'Hullo, Mrs Malik?' Harry says, loudly, tossing his bag down and sitting in the middle of Zayn's bed, 'it's me - Harry.' Harry spares Zayn a brief glance. 'Oh, Zayn didn't mention that we're rooming together? Really? No, yea.' He laughs. 'It has absolutely been too long. Oh, I'm wonderful, how've you been? How's everyone?' A pause. 'Yea, Gem told me about that, actually. Yea, she found Doniya on Facebook forever ago. Tell Mr Malik I said "congratulations", anyway. How're Saf and Liyha?' Harry lays out on his back, blissfully ignoring Zayn's growing look of outrage. Harry's proper big for someone who doesn't even do sport anymore; he takes up over half the bed! Zayn inches closer to the wall to put some space between them, feeling itchy and irritated. Where's all this coming from, then.  
  
Harry turns on his side, so he's stretched out alongside Zayn. 'Our Saf, a ballerina,' he murmurs, grinning a little, breaths warm puffs against Zayn's face, 'is that right?'  
  
Just givin' it all up, huh, Mum. Typical.  
  
There's a small sliver of space between the two of them. Zayn shifts his hips forward, just a little, so he can breathe a bit more easy. It's cramped is all - that's the only reason his chest feels so tight. Probably it doesn't help that he feels so sore, either. He stares at Harry's loosened tie, the gold chain sliding sideways across his neck; tries to focus on his mum's tinny voice. 'I wouldn't expect anything less of her, to be honest,' Harry's saying, closer, somehow, and quieter. 'Don't tell Gem I said this but...I always thought Zayn was quite lucky. y'know, to've such wonderful sisters.' Zayn tries not to feel too pleased. He's always known Harry was a terrible suck-up - it's nothing new.  
  
He shuts his eyes tight, trying to breathe through his nose. Harry smells -- he smells really good. Like fresh laundry. And that cologne he uses - the, the blue stuff. Clean. Warm.  
  
Harry's voice drones on and on in the heat - how is it possible for him to have that many words in him? - his mum's voice like very distant bells. The blinds are raised - the sun passes up their chests, then their necks, till it's fully in their faces. Zayn drifts through the wine darkness, falling asleep to Harry's voice, falling into it.  
  
And then Harry's saying goodbye, lovely catching up with you, talk to you soon.  
  
'Mmm?' Zayn mumbles. It's more of a struggle to lift his lids than he thought it'd be.  
  
'Sh, sh,' murmurs Harry, and his hand comes up to rest on Zayn's chest, soothingly, right above his heart. Role reversal, Zayn thinks, dreamily. Used to be Harry what couldn't ever get to sleep.  
  
''l grown up, mm?,' he murmurs, wondering how his face ended up buried in Harry's neck. It's been a very long time since he's been this close with anyone. Since he's been this close with Harry.  
  
'Had to happen sometime,' Harry says, and he pulls Zayn more fully against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you find yourself being bothered by inaccurate details about football, canon age differences, accents, college, or basic tenets of the human existence, don't worry - #youarenotalone


End file.
